


like chardonnay (get better over time)

by sabinelagrande



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: An Autobiography by Anthony J. Crowley, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Constipation, How To Pine For Someone Who's Already In Love With You, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Switching, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Crowley (Good Omens), eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21964303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: Or, alternately, turn to vinegar. Or in this case, maybe both.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 510





	like chardonnay (get better over time)

There's just been a lot going on.

This statement is meant to cover all the time between the garden and everything that came after it. It's just a lot. There are wars and regime changes and social movements and Saturdays where one couldn't possibly get out of bed because it was too hot/cold/rainy/snowy/volcanic/Saturday, you know? Earth is a lot, society is a lot, and there's so much happening every day, all the time, small and large, a tapestry of things that make a big confusing picture that people are trying to pick out all the time.

And there's that thread, always that thread, of Aziraphale and Crowley and the Arrangement. Crowley has been hung on that thread for centuries, dangling by it, sometimes a lifeline and sometimes like it's strangling him. The threat has frayed in places, almost snapped, but it has never broken, after all this time.

And now six thousand years and a couple weeks later, it's come to this.

"Well, that's one way to do it," Crowley says.

"Perhaps I was a bit forceful," Aziraphale says, wincing.

They're standing in the bookshop, not even touching each other; they haven't touched each other, not more than friends who exchange longing glances might. Crowley wants to touch, very, very badly, but he was not expecting Aziraphale to say, out of nowhere, when the shop had only just closed, "Ah, Crowley, dear boy, would you like to have sex? With me?"

"That was not a no," Crowley says carefully. 

"I'm sorry to have presumed-" Aziraphale says.

"No, no, the presumption part was fine," Crowley says.

"I think it is useless for us to, as they say, beat around the bush in regards to our feelings," Aziraphale says, looking a tad frustrated, like he doesn't see why he has to explain this. "It is blatantly obvious that we love each other, and frankly, I've gotten tired of not acting on it."

"Um," Crowley says, blinking, because he thought this was a conversation they were going to have in fits and starts and the accidental brushing of hands for the next decade, easy, and he didn't know how it would end. "You're not wrong."

"So I thought perhaps you might like to embark on the physical," Aziraphale says. "It just seems like a thing you would be interested in." He looks bashful. "You must have had many lovers, over the centuries."

"Ah, well, you know," Crowley says.

Aziraphale frowns. "Know what?"

"Could have done, yeah," Crowley says, scratching his chin. "Boatloads." Aziraphale looks like he's putting two and two together, so Crowley rushes to interrupt his train of thought. "Don't act like you're some untouched flower. You with all your dancing and your clubs for gentlemen and your temptations. My temptations, technically, but."

"Um," Aziraphale says. "About that."

"Wait," Crowley says, his eyes widening to yellow disks.

"Oh, you're going to think me utterly foolish," Aziraphale says, looking a little miserable. "I- it seems ridiculous."

"You were waiting?" Crowley says. He takes a flying leap. "For me?!"

"Don't rub it in," Aziraphale says, now fully miserable. 

Crowley wants to cross the space between them, but he can't, like he's stuck to the floor.

"I'm a virgin," he blurts instead.

"Don't taunt me," Aziraphale snaps.

"When I'm taunting you, you'll know it," Crowley says.

"Were you-" Aziraphale says, somewhere between alarmed and puzzled. "Were you waiting for me?"

"No, I was waiting for the bloody postman," Crowley sneers. "You don't have to be an asshole about it."

"I'm not trying to be," Aziraphale says. 

There is a pause. 

"Well one of us should have fucked _someone_ ," Crowley says.

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale says.

"Now we're just going to be flailing around on top of each other," Crowley says. "Sex with virgins is notoriously terrible."

"I thought your lot loved virgins," Aziraphale says, raising an eyebrow.

"I am not 'my lot,'" Crowley hisses.

"I, um, practice onanism," Aziraphale offers.

"No one has called it that with a straight face in a hundred years," Crowley says, ignoring how his mouth goes dry when he thinks about Aziraphale with his sure, steady hand on his own cock.

"I'm just saying that it might help," Aziraphale says. "Surely you do too."

"Yeah, now and again," Crowley says, with a shrug. "Bit boring after all this time, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't feel that way at all," Aziraphale says, a little quieter, the prettiest blush spreading on his cheeks. Crowley really wants to see how far down it goes. "Perhaps if we didn't-" he makes a sort of punching motion, and Crowley really doesn't fancy that, not any time soon. "Go all the way at first. If we sidled up to it."

Crowley swallows. "What did you have in mind?"

Carefully, hesitantly, Aziraphale walks over to him. He puts his hand on the back of Crowley's neck, guiding him down, and what happens next is not careful or hesitant. Crowley pushes their lips together immediately, and Aziraphale doesn't hold back. It's messy and wet and Crowley tries not to push all six thousand years of longing into it, but it happens anyway. Aziraphale gives it right back, his tongue in Crowley's mouth, a gasp when Crowley grabs his ass to drag him closer.

They finally break apart, panting.

"So we're pretty good at that part," Crowley says.

Aziraphale hums. "Practice makes perfect."

There are almost no empty walls in the bookshop, so Crowley backs him up against a column thing that miraculously isn't ringed by stacks of books. "I'll show you practice," he says, and he slots their mouths together again.

They kiss for long minutes after that, and Crowley is glad for the column; it keeps Aziraphale pressed against him, and also it holds Crowley up, stops him from collapsing onto the floor, which he thinks he could easily do. It's perfect, and it's also way too much, not that something like that would stop him.

"What would you like to do, dearest?" Aziraphale asks, running a hand through Crowley's hair.

"This was your idea," Crowley says, darting in to steal a few more kisses before he lets Aziraphale respond. 

"I have a thought," Aziraphale says. "What if we just watched?"

"Watched?" Crowley says, but he picks up the thread. "While we 'committed onanism'?"

"How is it that we've gone millennia and your impersonation of me is still so bad?" Aziraphale says.

"I was quite convincing when I was in your body," Crowley says, in a much more accurate voice.

"I have no doubt you'd be very good in my body," Aziraphale says, and he looks, as he always does, proud to have made a double entendre.

"You are too much," Crowley says. "Now come on."

They haven't even made it to Aziraphale's back room, which mysteriously contains, as a result of a lack of communication, two beds, before they're hastily undressing each other. Aziraphale doesn't even complain about his clothing hitting the floor, which is a miracle in and of itself. They reach the nearer of the beds, and Aziraphale pulls away; Crowley wants to reel him back in, but the sight of Aziraphale climbing onto the bed and settling against the headboard is so distracting that he forgets all about it.

"Now you, on your end," Aziraphale says, graciously handing over a pillow, and Crowley takes up his position, the pillow behind his back.

"You have to go first," Crowley says, and he's not even sure where it came from; he just knows he can't handle it the other way around.

"If you like," Aziraphale says; the blush goes down to his chest, and it is astounding.

He gets up on his knees, like he's presenting himself to Crowley; his cock is already hard, drawn up almost to his belly by how turned on he is. Crowley drinks in the sight of him, all smooth skin, almost glowing, with an appealing smattering of hair that's nearly as white as the stuff on his head. Crowley has seen other people naked, of course he has, in many different contexts, but none of it is even comparable to seeing Aziraphale like this, achingly hard because Crowley made him that way.

"Go on, angel," Crowley urges gently. "Let me see you."

Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders falling just a bit. He wraps his hand around his cock, and Crowley can't look away as he starts to stroke it slowly. They haven't gotten anywhere and already Aziraphale is panting; this is why he had to go first, because Crowley is too worried about giving it all away, not being able to moderate how much he wants it. Aziraphale doesn't care about something like that. Aziraphale is all in, running headlong into pleasure no matter what the consequences are.

And this time, it seems he's unable to resist yet again. He starts working himself faster, and Crowley is taking copious notes in his head, how he likes it, what sounds he makes. Aziraphale does it with this little twist at the end, his thumb swiping over the head of his cock, and Crowley both wants to copy it and wants to feel Aziraphale doing that to him immediately.

Aziraphale's head is thrown back; he runs his hand up his chest and settles it around the column of his neck, the gesture so natural, so accustomed that Crowley wonders if he even knows he's doing it. He's making these little fucking noises, soft gasps that sound almost pained, and Crowley wants to drag so much more out of him, wants to make him _scream_.

"Fuck," Crowley says unsteadily, and he feels like his head is swimming with it, Aziraphale's hands throwing him off course, all before Aziraphale has even touched him. Aziraphale groans, his hand working faster and faster still. "Let me see you come, please, angel, come all over yourself for me."

Aziraphale lets out a cry, painting himself with it, his stomach, his chest. Crowley thinks about moving forward, about licking it off of him, but he feels like that's breaking the rules, pushing it too far. Instead he just watches, as Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders sagging, and falls back against the headboard.

"Holy shit," Crowley says.

"Was that good?" Aziraphale asks.

"Was that good?" Crowley says indignantly. "Satan's sake."

Aziraphale sighs again, and he looks too satisfied to argue. "Your go," he says.

"Yeah," Crowley says. He's hard enough to pound nails but it still seems like a lot. "Sure, right, my turn."

He slouches down, resting his head against the footboard and spreading his legs; he's still not touching Aziraphale, but he could be, what with the way he's sprawling. He tries to get settled in, do it like how he really likes it, flat in bed so he can feel the stretch when it makes him want to curl up.

He lets out a deep breath before running his hand down his stomach. He likes a bit of anticipation, even when he's so turned on he can't think straight. He slides the flat of his hand over his dick first, even pressure that he bucks up into without meaning to. No more of that, then; he takes his cock into his hand, a loose grip that teases.

He looks up, and Aziraphale is staring at him; Crowley isn't even sure he's blinking. He looks like he's cataloging every touch, every caress, his attention so rapt that Crowley almost feels pinned by it, opened up. Crowley dares to move his hand faster, tightening it for more friction. 

"That's it," Aziraphale says, his voice hushed, and Crowley gasps. He feels like a plant in the sun, a snake on a branch, soaking in the heat and light until he's replete with it, until it's too much.

He loses his ability to go slow at that point. He'd like to give Aziraphale a good show, drag it out, show him every little intention he's ever had, but he can't. Aziraphale is _looking_ at him, and he's going to melt, evaporate, sublimate.

He's jolted hard when Aziraphale puts a hand on his calf, like he can't deal with not touching anymore; somehow it's the most erotic thing that's ever happened to him, just Aziraphale's fingers on his naked skin, not even near anywhere sexual. Crowley bucks off the bed and comes, his shoulders and his hips both straining up, held almost painfully as he comes all over himself, so hard that it hits his face.

Crowley collapses onto the bed, going boneless. "Oh," he says, for lack of anything better.

Aziraphale crawls towards him, and Crowley can't bring himself to help or hinder him. He stops between Crowley's legs; he makes a brushing motion on Crowley's stomach, and Crowley is clean again. Crowley doesn't let him get any closer. Before Aziraphale knows what's happening, Crowley has surged up and tackled him to the bed. Aziraphale laughs as Crowley kisses him all over his face, trying to turn away from him but just giving Crowley more targets.

Crowley flops down next to him. "Fuck, angel."

"I know what you mean," Aziraphale says.

"That was good, right?" Crowley says.

"We did it quite well," Aziraphale says with satisfaction.

"So maybe we're not hopeless," Crowley says.

"Oh, I should say not," Aziraphale says. "That seemed like quite an auspicious start."

"So, um," Crowley says. "What do we do now?"

"That's rather a big question," Aziraphale says.

"No, no, not in the grand scheme of things," Crowley says, waving an arm. "Right now."

"I think one falls asleep?" Aziraphale tries.

"It's three in the afternoon," Crowley says.

"Then I have no idea," Aziraphale says.

"We should just sort of rest, I think," Crowley says.

"Oh!" Aziraphale says. "We should cuddle."

"Naked?" Crowley says, not sure whether he's promoting or turning down the idea.

"Here," Aziraphale says; he makes a motion and they're wearing boxer shorts. Both pairs are tartan, because Aziraphale cannot be left unsupervised. Crowley does feel a bit better, though he couldn't say why. He's just gone farther with Aziraphale than he's ever gone with anyone, even if they barely even touched.

Aziraphale, using both the fact that Crowley is surprised and the fact that he is stronger than Crowley, pushes him onto his side. Crowley almost makes a sound of complaint, but then Aziraphale is wrapping his arms around him, the two of them curled up together.

"I wanted to be the big spoon," Aziraphale says, without a hint of remorse.

"I am agnostic on the topic of spoons," Crowley says.

"Perhaps you can be the big spoon later," Aziraphale says, in the voice of a man who is never going to give up his spooning position.

Crowley makes a beckoning motion, and the duvet from the other bed comes over and settles on top of them. He has about a billion questions, because a six-thousand-year-old relationship has just taken a sharp left. Aziraphale is convinced that they love each other; Crowley has known he was in love with Aziraphale basically since the birth of the Arrangement, that love a thing that waxed and waned but never actually went anywhere, in terms of being fulfilled and of leaving his head. 

Crowley liked to think, sometimes, when he was alone, of what it might have been like to take it somewhere else. To thumb their noses at Heaven and Hell and just be together; Aziraphale would never have entertained such a notion, but Crowley entertained it a lot. They hadn't been angel and demon for a long time. They'd been Aziraphale and Crowley, and that was completely different.

And apparently Aziraphale knew all of this without being told, but Crowley knew nothing of Aziraphale's end. Aziraphale was Aziraphale, stuffy and proud, aloof whenever Crowley tried to move closer, only ever loosening up when Crowley pulled back, or when he had three or four bottles of wine in him. The very idea that Aziraphale loves him and that he thinks Crowley should know is so ridiculously foreign to Crowley that he can't help but demand answers.

But Aziraphale, that absolute asshole, falls asleep, leaving every last one of Crowley's questions for a later date.

Crowley falls asleep too, mostly out of spite. By the time he wakes up, he's alone; Aziraphale has banished the extraneous bed, and there's soft music playing from somewhere in the shop. He has no idea how long it's been, though it is night outside. He sits up, stretching, and wonders what the hell he did with his cell phone.

He gets out of bed, trying to solve a series of mysteries; he's still in ridiculous tartan boxers, but he can't quite bring himself to take them off. The rest of his clothing has left the material plane, so he thinks up a new set. It's basically identical to the old set, but Crowley knows the value of having A Look when the current fashion trends are less than acceptable.

Clothed, he saunters into the bookshop proper; Aziraphale is reading, a record playing. "Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says, with an air of familiarity that is a lot even for the two of them. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. I wanted to go out for dim sum."

Crowley yawns. "Could have gone without me. You're going to eat my portion anyway."

"It's the look of the thing," Aziraphale says, not offended by the accusation. "Well, come along."

Crowley finds both his cell phone and his sunglasses on a table, putting the phone in his pocket and the sunglasses on his face. "Yeah, alright," he says.

They go to dinner- apparently on the same day- and Aziraphale says nothing about what happened. If Crowley hadn't woken up in Aziraphale's bed, if he wasn't still wearing Aziraphale's tartan, he'd think he imagined the whole thing. That thought is a lot; Crowley feels vulnerable, stretched thin, like he could break.

At the restaurant, Aziraphale lays a hand on Crowley's arm as he emphasizes a point, and all Crowley can think of is Aziraphale's hand on his calf, how it felt so hot that it would go through his skin.

"Hey, angel," Crowley says, cutting off Aziraphale mid-sentence; he's explaining something about durian fruit, a thing Crowley thinks probably resulted from humans testing each other and is not actually edible. "Are we going to talk about what happened?"

Aziraphale stares at him and wordlessly lifts a bun to his mouth; it is a classic Aziraphale maneuver, taking a bite of food to avoid a question. Crowley bites into a taro dumpling, both because it's delicious and because two can play at that game. Then they're just staring at each other, chewing, both of them unwilling to back down.

Aziraphale breaks first, which Crowley knew would happen. "Do we need to talk about it?"

"Do you think we don't?" Crowley says, his brow furrowing.

"It's just that it was very nice," Aziraphale says.

"But," Crowley prompts.

"But what?" Aziraphale says, frowning. "It was very nice, and we should do it again."

"Oh," Crowley says.

"Didn't you think it was nice?" Aziraphale says, looking distraught.

"I don't like things that are nice," Crowley says. "It was fucking hot, not _nice_."

Aziraphale sighs, rolling his eyes, but he seems relieved. "You do too like things that are nice, you silly serpent."

Crowley isn't ceding that particular ground, but he also doesn't care to relitigate it. "So what do we do now?"

Aziraphale looks around. "You want me to tell you in the middle of a restaurant?" he says, scandalized.

That time Crowley actually was talking about the grand scheme of things. He pokes at the uneaten half of his dumpling. He can't make the words come out, the ones he needs to clarify what he needs to know. Does Aziraphale love him like he loves everyone, in a distracted, diffuse way? Or does he love Crowley like Crowley loves him, in a way that feels like lead in Crowley's stomach?

"Maybe it can wait," Crowley says, and he stuffs the rest of the dumpling into his mouth so he can't say anything stupid. Crowley's questions go unanswered still, partly because Aziraphale offers no answers and partly because Crowley can't bring himself to ask for them.

But really, nothing changes. They still have meals together and drink more than they should. Crowley spends a lot of time on Aziraphale's sofa; Aziraphale still hates Crowley's apartment. They barely touch each other, still a hand on an arm kind of thing, maybe something so scandalous as a hand on a knee under a table. Aziraphale doesn't even sit on the sofa with him, except for a few times when he is very intoxicated or feeling extraordinarily affectionate and wants to lean into Crowley's side. That's as much as Crowley gets, his arm over Aziraphale's shoulders, Aziraphale's warm weight against him.

Except in bed.

Bed is an extremely different story. Now that they've broken the seal, they can't keep their hands off each other. They're trying everything, testing the boundaries, anything they can think of that's short of "penetrative intercourse," as Aziraphale likes to say in his precise manner, or "fucking," as Crowley says in his succinct one. 

They are, not to put too fine a point on it, not exactly having the struggles anticipated. They work together well, Aziraphale's softness and Crowley's hard lines meeting somewhere in the middle. There is fumbling and correction, missed targets sometimes, but they are nearing each other, dialing in. It helps that it feels amazing, like every brush of a hand is charged like lightning, like Crowley has never felt before.

Crowley doesn't know why they're not fucking yet, and he also knows exactly why. He couldn't possibly pull the trigger, not this soon. He's not in a hurry, and he's also desperately afraid of losing what he has, of overreaching just to see it fall out of his hands. This is the source of a lot of Crowley's problems, but as long as he never acknowledges that thought for the rest of his existence, he'll be okay.

So handjobs are good, and blowjobs are better, and just generally rutting against each other is great, but sixty-nine, as it turns out, and if you'll pardon the pun, sucks.

The third time Aziraphale's teeth touch his dick, Crowley calls it off. "Alright, alright, stop."

"What's wrong?" Aziraphale says breathlessly.

"This isn't working," Crowley says.

"Ah," Aziraphale says, a little guilty. "I was just going to keep going and see if it got better."

"You almost bit me," Crowley accuses. "There is no getting better from that."

Aziraphale guides him onto his back, and Crowley is skeptical as to where it's going. "Please let me redeem myself," he says.

"Just this once," Crowley says, and Aziraphale gets in between his legs. He sighs as Aziraphale takes him back into his mouth again, the wet, lush heat of it perfect; they've tried this before, and Aziraphale actually is quite good at it when he's not distracted. Crowley runs his hand gently through Aziraphale's hair as he sucks, not to force or guide, just to touch, to have a point of connection. 

Aziraphale, all of a sudden, lets Crowley go and pops his head up. "Can we try something?" he asks.

"Ngk," Crowley says, startled. "What would that be?"

"I was thinking that this was good, but a bit removed," Aziraphale says; this is fair, because it's why they were trying to sixty-nine in the first place, because trading sequential blowjobs just wasn't enough contact. It felt like one doing for the other, not doing for each other, which is what they'd vastly prefer. "I'd like to be closer."

"How do you propose that?" Crowley says, settling back in as Aziraphale starts to stroke him.

"I thought perhaps you might be enticed to take me between your thighs," Aziraphale says, which for Aziraphale is remarkably blatant, though, as it goes with Aziraphale, not remotely sexy.

Crowley finds it sexy anyway. Aziraphale is ruining him.

He pulls Aziraphale on top of him. "From the back or the front?" Crowley asks.

"Perhaps just like this," Aziraphale says, kissing him. Crowley lets him adjust them, and with a miracle he makes his inner thighs nice and slick, which is worth it for the look on Aziraphale's face when he pushes in.

"That what you wanted?" Crowley says, squeezing his thighs together; there's not much meat to them, but he can make it work.

"Oh gracious," Aziraphale says, because of course he does. He thrusts between Crowley's thighs, long passes of his hips. "I hope you like it, because I find it remarkable."

Crowley takes stock of it, because Aziraphale really would get off of him right now if he said the word. His cock is sliding against Aziraphale's stomach, a delicious tease that promises more, and the heavy weight of Aziraphale's cock between his thighs is so much hotter than he thought it would be. If he adjusted just so, tipped his hips up, spread his legs, Aziraphale would slide right into him.

"I could be persuaded," Crowley says. He puts his arms around Aziraphale's neck, because nothing sounds better than holding him close, kissing him as he fucks Crowley's thighs. Crowley thrusts upwards, just to grind himself against Aziraphale's stomach, just the pressure he needs, just enough. He didn't think he would, but he finds himself lost in it, in the push and pull, even though they're not really properly having sex.

Aziraphale's breathing has picked up, and Crowley knows he's close. "Yeah," Crowley says, squeezing his thighs together as tight as he can; he grabs his own cock, stroking it quickly so they can finish at the same time. "Do it, love."

Aziraphale gasps, his rhythm stuttering, quick, uneven thrusts. Crowley hits it first, his come getting all over both their stomachs, but it's less than a second later that he feels Aziraphale coming, the heat of it on the insides of his thighs as Aziraphale spends between them. Aziraphale doesn't move off him, settling onto him instead, and Crowley runs a hand through his hair, trying to ground him, his hands moving easily through the sweat-slicked strands.

Crowley wonders, like he does most times when they're in the afterglow, what it would be like if he just said something. It's a ridiculous idea. Aziraphale needs to be the one to say something. Aziraphale is the one with all the emotional intelligence in this relationship. Aziraphale is the one who says he loves Crowley, though he hasn't even asked if Crowley loves him. Aziraphale is taking everything for granted, like it's a done thing, even though he doesn't even take Crowley's hand when they're walking together. Aziraphale ought to be doing more, ought to be giving Crowley gifts and cuddling him places other than bed and generally acting like this is a thing, because it obviously is.

Crowley didn't know emotional blue balls were a thing, but here they are.

And it stretches on. Perhaps Aziraphale sits a little closer to him at a table, touches him a little more, but they're still circling each other, at least in Crowley's estimation. Aziraphale clearly thinks that nothing is wrong, and Crowley hates that.

"Angel," Crowley finally manages to say one night.

"Yes, dear?" Aziraphale says, looking up from the book he's rifling through; he's been doing it for a while, and Crowley's mostly just been watching him, his fingers on the pages.

"I thought maybe-" Crowley says, and that's as far as he gets. Aziraphale waits patiently, and Crowley seizes up, all his scraped-together confidence gone. "We could try that new ramen place."

"I didn't think you liked ramen," Aziraphale says brightly.

Crowley doesn't. "Yeah, you know, I could stand to broaden my horizons a little."

Aziraphale dims a bit. "Are you sure there wasn't anything else?"

"Just that," Crowley says, giving him a smile, and Aziraphale sets the book aside and starts asking him questions about when they should go out.

A thing Crowley will never admit to anyone, especially not himself, that sometimes he hates it when Aziraphale takes him at face value.

Things are spinning up and up and up to a climax and spiraling down and down and down to their nadir. Crowley doesn't know which one will happen first, which way he will break, bent in two directions at once. Aziraphale either doesn't notice or doesn't care, so naturally he's the one who breaks the cycle, pushes things to the limit.

"Crowley," he says, and Crowley's ears perk up. They're having a pretty good day; Crowley convinced him to go to the movies, and they saw something light and funny that put them both in a good mood. They're sitting together on the sofa for a change, and Crowley feels nice and relaxed.

"I think if you're ready to, you know," Aziraphale says, and Crowley's heart stops in his chest, "complete the act, then I'm ready too."

"Are you sure?" Crowley asks, even though what he wants to do is cheer.

"Absolutely positive," Aziraphale says.

"Who should be on top?" Crowley says, because both options sound wonderful.

"I want it to be you," Aziraphale says, a little shy.

Crowley kisses him. "Then what you want, you shall have."

Aziraphale takes both of Crowley's hands in his and walks him to the bed. With a gesture their clothes are gone, and Crowley pulls Aziraphale to him, kissing him deep and slow.

"How do you want me?" Aziraphale asks, which goes straight to Crowley's dick.

"Hands and knees," Crowley says. "If that's okay with you."

"Perfectly okay," Aziraphale says, smiling in his bright way, and he crawls onto the bed, holding onto the headboard, his body presented for Crowley. It reminds Crowley of the first time they were in bed together, Aziraphale showing off for him, wanting him to look.

Crowley gets in behind him, his cock rubbing against Aziraphale's ass in a way that makes him want to rub off just like that; it would be such a goddamn shame that the thought is gone in an instant.

"Nervous, angel?" Crowley asks; he rubs his fingers together, and they become slick.

"Only a little," Aziraphale says. "Mostly just excited."

"Glad to hear it," Crowley says. He puts a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, kissing his back as he slides two fingers inside. Aziraphale takes them easily, making a contented noise and pushing back for more. "You're a greedy little thing."

"If you don't know that by now, you haven't been paying attention," Aziraphale says, and Crowley laughs.

Crowley takes his time, working his fingers in, stretching Aziraphale open so that he's nice and ready for this, so Crowley can slide right in. He's been ready for ages and ages, but this is worth slowing down for, worth giving consideration. Aziraphale's breath is already coming heavy, and he pushes back against Crowley for more, so much so that Crowley barely has to move his fingers.

Crowley finally pulls his fingers out. "Are you ready?"

"Please, darling," Aziraphale says, canting his hips up. "I need you so badly."

Both of them groan as Crowley finally pushes inside, the two of them joined in the only way they've never been before. Aziraphale feels amazing around him, but he didn't anticipate how fulfilling it would be just to remove the last barrier, be together entirely. He rocks into Aziraphale slowly, and Aziraphale makes the most incredible noises, uninhibited and loud. Crowley wants more and more, wants absolutely everything.

It's slow, a steady rhythm that leaves him both gasping; Crowley's never felt something like this, the heat of Aziraphale's body, wanton and yielding for his. He's never been this close to another person, so close so as to be literally inside them. He can't stop running his hands over Aziraphale, the curve of his hips, the line of his back, his hands finding Aziraphale's shoulders and holding him steady so that he can move faster, give more, take more.

Sweat is rolling down the back of Crowley's neck as he thrusts in, fucking Aziraphale with everything he's got. Aziraphale is begging, incoherent pieces of words that mostly amount to Crowley's name. Crowley's never heard anything sweeter in his long existence, and the only possible course of action is to hear more, to elicit it as often as possible.

Aziraphale comes apart without even being touched, and Crowley feels it happen, reads it in Aziraphale's body. He keeps moving, hands tight on Aziraphale's hips. He's so close that he can taste it, so close to the brink that it feels like a single step would send him over.

"Please," Aziraphale says brokenly. "Please, Crowley, I want-"

And Crowley doesn't even have time to figure out what it is Aziraphale is asking, because he throws his head back and cries out, thrusting hard into Aziraphale as he comes. It seems to roll over him forever, like it's an age before it levels off, the feeling of the sweat cooling on his skin the first thing that comes back to him.

The sky outside is a different color than when they started, so maybe they did take an age. Crowley doesn't move, stretching out over Aziraphale, kissing his shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck, his hands over Aziraphale's. He doesn't feel any different for having finally gone through with it, except that he doesn't feel the same at all, like something came apart inside him.

"I love you," Crowley says, because he can't contain it anymore, can't not say it even if Aziraphale won't. "Fuck, angel, I love you so much."

"I know you do, dearest," Aziraphale says.

"Don't do me like this," Crowley says, feeling like he's hollowed out, the moment stripped away.

"What?" Aziraphale says, looking over his shoulder at Crowley. "I don't-" His eyes go wide. "Oh. Oh dear. Oh, Crowley."

"What?" Crowley says, tired, and he rolls off of Aziraphale.

"I thought I didn't have to say it," Aziraphale says, letting go of the headboard and turning over. "I thought- pardon me, love, but I thought you would infer my meaning even if I didn't say the words."

"Uh huh," Crowley says, shutting his eyes. "That's me. Love to infer. They even call me Infernal."

"Crowley, look at me," Aziraphale says, with a note of command in his voice, and Crowley opens his eyes; Aziraphale is bending over him now, looking down at him. "I love you," he says fervently. "I've loved you for ages. I can't imagine doing anything but loving you." He kisses Crowley sweetly. "Is that better? Shall I go on?" He kisses Crowley again when Crowley doesn't respond. "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach-"

"Reciting poetry is cheating," Crowley says, his voice unsteady.

"I didn't think you wanted to hear it," Aziraphale says. "I thought you'd know anyway."

"Next time, don't think," Crowley says. "Ask."

"You will recall that I already told you I loved you," Aziraphale says.

"Yeah, but angels love everybody," Crowley says stubbornly.

Aziraphale laughs. "Dearest, based on what we've been through, I may be the only angel who loves anybody." He pushes at Crowley. "On your side."

"Why?" Crowley says, though he lets himself be rolled over.

"Because I know you don't believe me, so I'm going to prove my point," Aziraphale says.

"With your cock?" Crowley says; Aziraphale is hard again, a benefit of having control over your corporation, and Crowley can't help but join him as Aziraphale pulls him close, rubbing against him.

"Just so," Aziraphale says, and his fingers slide into Crowley nice and easy.

"Do it," Crowley says, unable to bear the same slow consideration that he gave Aziraphale. "I need you in me, not your fingers, come on-"

"Fine, fine," Aziraphale says, taking his hand away only to put it on Crowley's hip.

Crowley moans loudly as Aziraphale pushes into him, one long thrust until he bottoms out. "Oh fuck," Crowley pants.

"I see why you liked it," Aziraphale says breathlessly.

"Likewise," Crowley says, as Aziraphale begins to move inside of him.

"I love you," Aziraphale says, his arm wrapped around Crowley's chest, holding him tight. "I love you so much, you specifically, nobody else."

Crowley can't bring himself to talk, so he just pushes back, focusing on the feeling of Aziraphale inside of him, lighting him up; this must be how Aziraphale felt, like there was a piece of him missing and it had been this all along. That's an understatement or an overstatement, depending on how you look at it, because what's missing from Crowley is all of Aziraphale, the two of them made to weave together, become one thing, a unified whole where one is indistinguishable from the other, their division past tense.

"I love you just like you love me," Aziraphale says, and Crowley makes a noise of protest. "Don't try to hide it from me, dear. I know you want me, and I want you, to the same extent, if not even more. I couldn't give you up if I tried."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" Crowley says, protesting even as Aziraphale is making him feel so good, their bodies still working in tandem.

"I didn't?" Aziraphale says, with no trace of self-awareness at all.

"You goddamned idiot," Crowley says. "What about hand holding and flowers and, and cuddling on couches while it's raining outside?"

"Oh," Aziraphale says, sounding startled. "I didn't think you liked that sort of thing."

"You didn't-" Crowley says indignantly, even though it feels like something has unlocked in his chest. "Finish fucking me and then we are going to have a talk."

"Alright, alright," Aziraphale says, though he sounds amused.

And so, six thousand years and a couple of months later, they are finally on the same page, working from the same book, and possibly even using their words. You can forgive them for taking so long; there's been a lot going on.

But Crowley doesn't get any flowers, on principle. Aziraphale knows he'll mistreat them dreadfully. The poor dears deserve better than that.


End file.
